


Begin

by Some_Writer



Series: Turian Machinations of Spectres and Primarchs [5]
Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Adrien Victus doing what he does best, Attempt at Humor, Canon-Typical Violence, Drabble Collection, F/M, First Contact War, Grief/Mourning, Mild Language, Origin Story, Relay 314 Incident, Separatists, Taetrus War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-06-19 22:34:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15520101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Some_Writer/pseuds/Some_Writer
Summary: "Fedorian is dead," Garrus had told him. "You're the new Primarch." But Adrien had lived a whole life before those fateful words were said to him.Excerpt:The Captain unfurled his posture from the table, rising to his full height. Behind his amber eyes, a hundred scenarios played out in his skull, the best components from each of them reconstructing themselves like puzzle pieces to ultimately create a strategy that imbued his second vocals with conviction as he met the officers’ gazes and told them plainly: “Then open the gates.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I learned that Adrien Victus week is a thing and I really wanted to contribute. So I meshed together a collection of real-world battles and 'cut content' from Adrien's military days that didn't make it into [The Primarch's Order](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8355244/chapters/19139458) and came up with this. You don't have to have read Order to read this story, but I definitely pepper in references here and there. Regardless, if you're a returning reader or just here to celebrate our favorite Primarch, I hope you enjoy!
> 
>  **Disclaimers** :  
> 1) If you're waiting for (the true) Part 4 to this series, it's coming! When I upload it, it will take up the spot for this fic, bumping it ahead in the order until it's last, after all the parts have been written.  
> 2) Mass Effect is the property of Bioware.  
> 3) A HUGE thank you to two wonderful friends and beta readers. [shretl (Girlundone)](http://archiveofourown.org/users/girlundone/pseuds/shretl) and [Marie_Fanwriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marie_Fanwriter).  
> 4) The beautiful artwork you see below was done by the talented [Palavenmoons](http://palavenmoons.tumblr.com/).

**  
**

****

 

**2170  
Pons, Solregit**

 

Enemy fire pinged off the shuttle's hull, fortunately too weak to break through its heavy shields. They flashed against the gunshots like a beast shaking stinging insects loose from its withers. Still airborne, but safely behind the high walls that surrounded the city of Pons, Captain Adrien Victus opened the hatch to stand in the doorway and watch the groundrush as they came onto approach. Plumes of russet dust erupted as the shuttle slowed, cloaking three armored individuals -the landing party, he presumed- as they stood abreast with their mandibles pointing upward, watching their descent.

Adrien's armored fingers wrapped securely around the handhold above the door, bracing himself against every jolt and shudder the aircraft gave, while his eyes peered through his helmet's tinted visor to take in the surroundings that rose up around him.

Tall buildings clawed at the sky, though none stood taller than the concrete barrier that caged them all in -a common feature on such a war-torn colonial world. Pons was located along Solregit’s equator, backed up against a barren desert that served as a natural border between the Loyalist South and Separatist North. A no man's land. While technically considered 'South,' the Vice Primarch and Colonial Governor of the territories of Northern Solregit, Rana Rosepterus, shouldered the burden of dealing with the Separatists. When the Separatists decide to encroach on Loyalist cities, it was her responsibility to step in to handle the situation, bargaining for any and all help the Hierarchy would send.

Adrien turned his attention back to those soldiers under his charge, his helmeted gaze travelling over their faces as he watched them sway with the movement of the shuttle. This time, when the Vice Primarch called, it was his platoon the Hierarchy had sent. He still wasn't sure whether to feel honored or insulted. Admittedly, it wasn't as though it was the first time he’d been called into a situation such as this. And, somehow, he doubted it would be the last… _if_ they survived.

The pilot, an unflappable young female with better flying skills than most frigate pilots he'd met, brought the shuttle down before the landing party. Victus knew he was to meet with three officials. As the dust settled, he recognized them instantly from the profiles he’d studied. From left to right: Avili Horados, a woman with green eyes, tan plates, and gray skin that tended to favor her left leg due to an old injury she sustained twelve years ago in the field. Seus Decril, a dark plated man with a coal-colored hide, blue eyes, and deceptively weak equanimity -though that wasn't in his profile. Victus could tell by his forced, unnaturally straight posture. Lastly, was Actoria Heltis, a decorated lieutenant and survivor of several skirmishes with the Separatists. Gray eyes peered out from within copper plates, confidence radiating off a relaxed yet professional stance.

The sound of the engines beginning to wind down signaled it was go time. Victus stepped out onto the dust covered landing pad followed by the beat of nineteen sets of boots behind him. Though, he knew the twentieth set would have hit the ground without so much as a whisper. The sunrays gleamed off his team's armored figures, pristine rifles in hand. He reached up and removed his own helmet, face expressionless as he took them in without his visor tinting. The twin suns burned in the sky above them, dry heat seeping into his plates as he willed himself to refrain from blinking at the brightness.

“Captain Victus, I presume?” Heltis greeted him with a curt nod. Ah, by the scent on her breath she had a _tabachi_ habit.

“Yes.” Victus acknowledged with a slight incline of his crest.

“This is it?” Decril sneered without bothering to smother the disdain in his subharmonics. “Is this a joke? We were promised reinforcements -a _company_ at least!”

The dark turian glared at the soldiers that trooped around their Captain, his eyes lingering on one in particular for a beat too long. Victus knew, without following the stare, that the scowl was directed at Attilia, her bare face on display with her helmet cradled under an arm. After a moment Decril rounded on his partners, gray eyes searching for validation.

Victus shifted the weight of his Phaeston to his other arm, stifling a sigh. It wasn't as though he was interested in being there himself, outmanned and outgunned if the reports were to be believed. “I'm afraid a platoon is what you have,” he replied, careful to keep his irritation from coloring his tone -well, too much, anyway. “Shall we convene somewhere more private?”

Decril looked tempted to argue further but Horados cut his impending tirade off before it began. “Of course, Captain. This way.” She gave a vague gesture in the direction of a set of buildings and turned away from the group, fully expecting everyone to follow her.

Instead of moving immediately, Victus took a moment to check the time on his omni-tool -1035- and he turned to address his soldiers. “Rest up. Meet back here at 1135.” Not waiting for the salutes he knew they'd snap off, he took his leave. Despite the less-than-warm welcome they received, there was no doubt in his mind that each and every one of his soldiers would be waiting for his orders ten minutes early.

 

* * *

 

“You say 'resources' like the Hierarchy has provided us with any!” With every word that spewed from Decril's mouth, Victus could feel his patience –already in short supply– wane.

They stood around a large holographic map of the area, showcasing Pons and the desert wasteland surrounding it. While Heltis and Decril stood with him next to the console, Horados kept her distance. She almost seemed to be surveying the rest of them, keeping silent despite Decril’s harsh tone.

Ignoring the older male for now, Adrien swiped a finger over the landscape, bringing up charts of data consisting of distances, their elevation, wind speeds, and outside temperatures. He took in the charts, of course having already seen them in the profile he’d been given, but these were the most up to date. From his research, he knew a frontal assault into the desert would be foolhardy, as the Separatists would have surely prepared for that by laying explosives and pitfalls in the sand. Any soldier to venture out into the desert would be akin to a pyjack seeking the slaughter.

With a snarl, no doubt irritated at Adrien’s indifference, Decril continued: “If that swell-headed coreworlder Primarch of yours hadn't waited so damn long, they could have dropped an airstrike and we’d have been done with this.”

Holding back a sigh, Victus chose to roll out his neck instead. It was true. An airstrike would have been the most straightforward approach to this sort of problem, but as it was the Separatists had moved too close to not only the city, but also her desert wells. Dropping a bomb on them would do no favors for either side.

Victus' taloned hands were colored blue in the holographic light, the image of hilltops pebbling the backs of his hands as he leaned forward to brace his weight on the platform and scan the city. For all Decril's claims of 'no resources' Victus saw an abundance. For one thing, Pons was backed up against a landscape of rolling hills that dipped and rose for several kilometers, thick with dried brush and dense brambles. Atop the terrain stood watch towers armed with anti-aircraft artillery. Undoubtedly, they had been what kept the onslaught of Separatists mercifully on foot thus far.

Following Victus' gaze to the artillery, Heltis offered, “We have soldiers stationed out there on rotation, but it's getting more dangerous to bring them in. We haven't taken too many losses as of yet, but they suffer a barrage or two on a daily basis.”

“We can't keep them from the guns forever,” Decril stated the obvious. Victus could feel the male’s eyes burning a hole through his crest while his head was bowed.

“It's not only the guns they want,” Victus asserted as he swept a talon slowly over the dried brush, his finger phasing seamlessly through the hologram. “These hills are tinder waiting to burn.”

“If you're the best the Hierarchy could send, I'm not impressed,” Decril growled. “So far all you've brought to our effort is your shuttle. In case you haven't noticed, brush control hasn't exactly been our top priority.”

Victus' gaze rose from the map to meet the cantankerous officer. He just managed to keep himself from voicing, _'The best part of you ran down your old man's leg,'_ and instead simply said, “Good.” A beat, then: “They'll want these hills. Taking them will grant them fortifications, a vantage point, the guns and, if it comes to it, they can burn it all down.”

The officers exchanged a worrying glance from across the simulation of all they stood to lose. “With all due respect, Captain,” Horados chimed in before Decril could, though his mouth hung agape, desperate to voice his dwindling opinion of the younger turian. “We're aware of all that. That's why we've kept them from the hills.”

“They take those hills,” Heltis pierced Victus with a glare. “They'll take our city.”

“Which is their ultimate goal,” Victus affirmed with a nod.

“Yes!” Frustrated, Decril's mandibles flared into an obnoxious snarl.

The Captain unfurled his posture from the table, rising to his full height. Behind his amber eyes, a hundred scenarios played out in his skull, the best components from each of them reconstructing themselves like puzzle pieces to ultimately create a strategy that imbued his second vocals with conviction as he met the officers’ gazes and told them plainly: “Then open the gates.”

At first, he was met with a silence so thick that the outside noise became almost deafening. Then Decril erupted. “WHAT?!”

 

* * *

 

It took a little convincing and a whole lot of pacing on his opponents’ part before Victus got his way. It was easy to dislike the officers, Decril most of all, but their first concern was for their people behind the ramparts. Opening the gates was a risky maneuver, he knew, but it was a tactical bet he was willing to take. It wasn't as though they had many alternatives. Either Victus took his men and left the city to their fate or he stayed to go through with his plan. They would succeed or he would burn with them.

Adrien suspected that a part of Decril only agreed so he might see the irksome young turian go up in flames, but he couldn't fault the man. It wasn't as though he was the only one to ever feel that way about him. Victus knew he had that that effect on people. Officers, mostly.

Now, sitting on a parapet atop the wide walkway of the wall, Victus waited. He could feel the buzz of the mass effect field generators hum within sections of the great durasteel barricade. It had served Pons well to protect it thus far and, if everything went his way today, it would continue to do so.

Knowing he wouldn’t have much longer to wait, he took a moment to wrap a lump of sticky _tabachi_ into a joint before lighting it and bringing it to his maw.

He remembered the look on Heltis' plates when he had asked her for some. She'd given him a quizzical look before acquiescing with an approving hum of her sub-vocals. “You smoke, do you, Captain?” She asked while she dug through her pocket for her stash. “Prefer to chew it, myself.” When she found the glass vial, its contents like round globules of green phlegm, she emptied some out into his open palm.

“No,” he replied, accepting the mucus-like substance into his palm. “Can't say I've ever cared for it.” Flicking his mandibles into a grateful smile, he departed with globule in hand and a puzzled stare upon his back.

Smoke billowed out from the gaps of his mouth as he stared off at the horizon. It might have been beautiful once, the desert wasteland under suns that were just starting to lower. Instead, the land was war-scarred and ugly. A shame.

Every now and again he snuck a glance toward the hills, his amber gaze quickly scanning the thick brambles for any signs of movement. Seeing nothing, he took another pull from his joint and smiled around the plumes he blew into the still air.

_'Good.'_

As he predicted, his lure was too much to resist and he soon heard the rumbling sound of approaching vehicles. Victus reclined further on his stoney perch, comfortably crossing one ankle over the other and making a point to take another, much longer, drag. He could almost feel the effects of it tickling his mind as the smoke permeated the air above his tilted face, but he was careful to keep his wits. Though, it was definitely playing a part in his inability to feel the sunrays beating down on his plates, a small consolation for the bitter smoke in his maw. His nearing victory would taste even sweeter.

As the reverberating grew, monstrous VT7s crept over the horizon, flanked on all sides by -he quickly estimated- three-hundred or so rebel soldiers dressed in armor as mismatched and obsolete as the hull on their durasteel 'war' vehicles. The sight of them almost made Victus want to laugh... or maybe that was just the _tabachi_. They crept closer and closer to the city walls, all the while Victus sat unhurried and unafraid. Even if their best sniper took a shot at him he was protected by both the wall's shields and his own.

“You don't honestly think they'd be that stupid,” Decril had chided earlier.

“They've been out in the desert a long time, they can't have much in the way of supplies. So, stupid -no. Desperate -yes. And desperate people make mistakes,” was his answer.

Few were more desperate than Separatists.

An easy grin spread across Victus’ face as he stood from his roost to gesture welcomingly to the open gates like easy, low-hanging fruit. He tried not to think of the lives behind the wall that depended on him as the enemy crept closer. Of the lives of his soldiers that trusted him as they kept coming. Of the officers that had little choice but to put their faith in him as their adversaries eyed the open gates like hungry varren, shyly sniffing at an offered hand. Of the look on Magrim’s beautiful face, holding Tarquin in her arms, should he not come home.

As Victus predicted --and privately hoped-- the feral varren shied away from the proffered treat. The encroaching mass of turians began to split down the middle to flank the city with Victus at its point -the keel that parted a torrential sea.

The Captain schooled his mandibles from displaying the triumph that roared inside. He was still being watched, after all. Staring at the ragtag army, his mandibles were slack against his face and his eyes were wide with careful apprehension as they slowly bypassed the all but highlighted trap that was Pon's gates and crept toward the hills. There, they would hope to fortify their defenses. They would seize the artillery and gain all the long-term advantages, allowing them to take the city at a later time and then some.

Victus rotated on the spot to take in both sides of the city, scanning the backs of the VT7s and Separatist soldiers until his eyes fell on one turian that trailed near the back, a shotgun cradled in his arms. At the sight of him, the Captain allowed his mandibles to fold back into their natural place, his joint smoldering to an end at the side of his mouth, forgotten. It was at the crest of the hill, when the large VT7s trundled down the other side and out of Victus’ sight, that the turian of interest turned back to gaze at the city behind him. Though he was far away, there was no mistaking the stiff posture of a creature that just realized it had become prey. Furthermore, there was no mistaking the face.

Louki Fidele.

Suddenly, Victus hungered as he watched the dread sink into his prey. He could see it in the way his weight dropped lower to the ground as he prepared for the fight to come and how he brandished his weapon skyward. Victus took the joint between his fingers, pulling one last drag into his lungs before dropping it to the ground. Smoke billowed out around his mandibles like it would from a fire-breathing beast of legend.

Across the distance, their eyes met and the predator allowed himself to smile around the only order he needed to give, spoken into his comm to his soldiers that waited in the hills.

“Begin.”

It quickly became difficult to hear the screams over the gunshots and explosions from the hills and battlecries from the hidden Pons soldiers in the streets. Victus languidly stamped out the ashes before calmly moving toward the staircase to disembark from his perch.

He still had work to do.

 

* * *

 

Scorching ground burned beneath his feet. He could feel it through the soles of his boots, but his armor protected him from harm. His shields would periodically flicker when a lick of flame got too close, but the black ceramic plates left the being inside virtually untouched. Red lights streaked against a background of black smoke, drawing vanishing lines in the air as he moved.

The bulk of the Separatist army had met their end almost as soon as the battle started. Most of their VT7s were rendered useless. Flipped over on their backs in the valley of the hills, having been sent tumbling down by the string explosives that upended them. And that was before they were flanked at the rear by Pon’s forces that came roaring from the city.

With the bulk of their firepower lying futilely atop their own men, guns buried in shifting sand, the rebel forces broke as thoroughly as their shattered resolve. Some seized the opportunity to make an escape if it was present, pausing to drag injured comrades away if they could. Many, however, flashed their teeth and fought for their lives.

“Give them no quarter!” He ordered into his comms.

A part of him always wished to be an outsider, to witness his soldiers moving like one cohesive beast. Their movements were precise, predicting each other and acting accordingly.

“Bring the bastards to their knees!”

He could _feel_ his squad move around him, taking out his enemies like extensions of his own talons. Omni-blades pierced through the joints of inferior armor and rifles found their marks again and again. Every now and then he would catch glimpses of his best infiltrator as Attilia flickered in and out of view, the only sign of her whereabouts were the dead and dying she left in her wake.

Bodies grew in increasing piles in all directions, forcing him to have to sidestep motionless forms with increasing frequency. Dual-toned screams and wails vibrated in the scorched air, but he was deaf to it all. His focus was on his work; on every detail around him. Nothing changed without his notice.

The Captain closed a fist around an unfortunate soul’s shoulder, trapping him before his omni-blade sliced up into the back of their helmet. Allowing the body to drop to the ground, Victus turned to another advancing opponent.

In the span of less than a second, he registered the thick plate that protected his foe, the relatively short distance that separated them, and that his audacity to get so close was indicative of a sufficient shield generator. Automatically, Victus moved his hand for the required tool. As he rotated, his fingers closed around the weight of his shotgun stock, pulling it free from its maglock and pointed it at his enemy. The other turian hit the ground with half a skull before he was able to get a single shot off, palms loose around an unused rifle.

Later, when the screaming died down and the air was choked with the smell of burned plates, Victus walked across the battlefield, if it could even be called one anymore.

A three-fingered hand reached for his ankle, the body attached to it charred and blackened within pieced-together armor. A desperate keen rang from burned vocals only to be swiftly silenced by a quick shot from Victus' sidearm. That was the only mercy he showed.

The rest was a slaughter.

As he walked among the dead and dying, he reduced the tinting of his visor to better search the bodies for any that belonged to him. His hopes grew with each mismatched armor-plated body he passed until the sight of gray and red caught his eye. Hurrying over, he hoped it was just an ash-covered body and not his platoon’s colors. Somehow, he knew better.

Sure enough, it was one of his own. He didn't even need to turn the body over to know who it was, though he did so anyway. Rela Mactus, twenty-eight, colony kid from Macedyn. She had been a part of his team for the last year and a half. Writing short stories on datapads to pass the time while traveling was one of her favorite hobbies. Hell of a shot too. Her visor was shattered, allowing sightless eyes to stare up at him from the depths of her helmet. Blue blood coated his gauntlets.

Steeling himself, Victus pulled her free from the bodies piled around and on top of her -no doubt her final opponents. Lifting her into his arms, and suppressing the keen he wanted to emote when her head fell back against the crook of his elbow, Victus held his silence. There would be time for mourning later.

He wanted to return her to camp now, to carry her body in his arms back to their contingent so that they could grieve the loss together. Instead, there was still work to be done. Victus laid her down carefully, crouching at her side as he silently asked for the Spirit of their platoon to watch over her until he could return.

There was no sound as Attilia sidled up beside him. Her helmeted crest was lowered in the direction of the fallen turian in front of him for several seconds before she lifted her head to meet his gaze.

Victus stood up, heedless of the blood on his armored plates.  

“Casualty report,” was all he said as she fell into step beside him.

“Two dead, sir,” she stated. “Four injuries; Minor.”

Staring ahead, taking in the hundreds of charred bodies around them, a swell of pride intermixed in the pool of grief inside him. His soldiers had fought damn well, as he knew they would. Outmanned and outgunned, they were superior in every way.

He might’ve told Attilia so if not for the words of one final Sundowner left alive.

“Is this the world you p-picture?” Pain made subharmonics slur and waver in and out of the voice as it slithered its way from the depths of burned lungs.

The agent and her Captain came to a halt, their eyes scanning for the speaker, eventually finding him with his left leg pinned beneath the crushing weight of an overturned VT7 -Louki Fidele.

Victus watched him with an expression devoid of emotion. The Sundowner’s armor was charred and full of holes that leaked blue blood, darkening the dry sand around him. Sharp teeth, stained an inky cobalt, were bared in a threatening display to match the battle teeth tattooed around his maw. He watched Victus with vicious eyes holding nothing but contempt.

Against a blazing backdrop of fire, embers swirling around him, the Hierarchy Captain held the Sundowner’s stare, never dropping it even after he gave a curt hum of dismissal to Attilia and approached his old adversary.

Attilia hung back as ordered, but stayed well within distance to kill the Separatist in a second’s notice.

Crouching beside Fidele, Victus rested his forearms comfortably over his thighs, never once breaking eye-contact with the other male. To Fidele’s credit, neither did he.

“T-tell me, Victus.” Fidele’s mandibles flared against the agony that racked his body. “Is this what you want for your son?” Finally looking away, Fidele emphasized his point by staring pointedly at the carnage that smoldered around them.

Victus kept, what could be seen of his visage, a stoic wall --a task made slightly more difficult at the bold invocation of his boy from his enemy's mouth. Yet, there was a part of him that was also slightly amused at apparently making enough of an impression, during their past encounters, that warranted an investigation into his personal life.

Fidele snarled at his lack of response, but his mandibles pulled into what Victus was sure was his best attempt at a smile. “He’ll end up d-dead just like your girl over there.” He tilted his head in the direction of Rela’s corpse. “Sh-she fought well, you know.” A ragged wheeze, then: “I watched her. You taught her well.” Bitter venom drenched his words, soiling the compliment. “For all the g-good it did her.” Inhaling a long breath in an attempt to steel himself against his pain and steady his next words, he said, “I’m sure you’ll teach your son well, too.”

Adrien was too late to stop the finger that twitched towards his pistol. A minute movement, but one not missed by the Sundowner as he laughed a cold, rattled sound. “One day, I’ll show him the same mercy you showed my men today.”

Rage simmered below the surface, but Victus suppressed it as he, finally, responded with a measured tone: “You did this to your men, Fidele. You led them here. Not me.” He paused to lean into the Sundowners space. “But you know that. Tonight, I’ll go back to Palaven, to my mate and our son. I’ll sleep well with my conscience clear and my cock inside her.” Victus looked up at the overturned VT7 that trapped his foe. “Assuming you get yourself free of this, you’ll just lay awake with this failure on your mind. You’ll ask yourself --and this is what I know you fear the most-” He canted his head, giving Fidele a quiet, pointed look as his next words whispered through his maw. “‘Was it worth it?’”

A moment stretched between them, their eyes locked as naked rage burned like the sun tattooed on Fidele’s face. When Victus rose to his feet and turned to rejoin Attilia, the Separatist stopped him with one more question. “That’s it?” he seethed. “Aren’t you going to kill me too, Victus? Like you _butchered_ all the rest?” His voice grew, a trembling growl enveloping his words as he snarled: “Like _animals_!”

“And martyr you?” Victus looked over his shoulder and saw a man racked with pain, goading him to pull the trigger because he was too much of a coward to face the question posed to him. “No.”

He didn’t know Fidele well beyond which arm he favored to shoot with, but from what he did know he was normally a composed individual. Tonight, however, he screamed when Victus walked away from him, cursing him and all that he held dear. Victus wouldn’t spare another moment on him, but Attilia glanced past his shoulder.

“Sir, wouldn’t it be best if…” She trailed off, snapping her eyes off the desperate turian as she remembered herself.

“Is that pity I detect?” Victus tilted his head.

“No, sir.” She snapped off quickly.

Victus thrummed an ‘ _at ease_ ’ with his subvocals and told her: “It’s all right. I do.”

“Sir?” The professionalism slid away, confusion thrumming in her second vocals.

“He’ll either die the slow death he deserves, or he’ll hobble back to those that follow him and explain to them why he survived when so many died.”

Attilia’s crimson gaze shifted back to the man in question. “That would shatter their morale.” She looked at her Captain again, realization dawning in her eyes. “You’re using him.”

“I never throw away a useful tool.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea for this battle was inspired by the story of [Zhuge Liang](http://www.jadedragon.com/history/liang1.html) that took place in third century China. I plan to do that a few more times for this story. :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two days from now (October 4th) _The Primarch's Order_ will be a year old in its completion. So I thought it would be appropriate to post some more Victus stuff for anyone interested. From now on, the stories will follow a bit of a pattern. The first half of each chapter will be events set during Adrien's youth, which will tie together with the second half that'll take place later in his life, slowly building him into the turian we meet on Menae. 
> 
> **Disclaimers:**  
>  1) Beta'd by both [shretl (Girlundone)](http://archiveofourown.org/users/girlundone/pseuds/shretl) and [Marie_Fanwriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marie_Fanwriter).  
> 2) I don't normally switch to different POVs, but the scene for the second half of the chapter wouldn't leave me alone. I hope you all like it. :)

**Cipritine Port, Palaven 2150**

 

The day Adrien Victus had been waiting for all his life had finally arrived. Having turned fifteen two months ago, he was expected to report for his first day of duty at Cipritine Port on the seventh month of the year.

He was a private now.

Sitting in the back of the skycar, he had to stifle a nervous warble when he heard the thrusters give a _whir_ as his mother brought the vehicle down from the sky. He tore his eyes from the horizon, the buildings rising above them as they descended, to steal a glance at his parents’ hands in front of him, held in one another’s grasp between their seats. They had been waiting for this day as well.

It was their day to prove themselves as worthy turian parents.

It was his day to simply prove himself worthy of becoming a turian citizen.

He refused to let them down.

Cipritine Port was a grand building. It was easy to spot from the sky as it glittered silver in the sun like a jewel amidst desert sand. Clearly Palaven’s answer to every extravagant port in the galaxy- the first representation of the Silver Planet’s people. The walls were thick and the ceiling high, doubling as both a luxury harbor for visitors and an effective war bunker. It was often busy with travelers coming and going- mostly military personnel and off-duty turian C-Sec officers returning home. But the flow of travelers paled in comparison to the days when brand new recruits filled the space two days out of the year.  

After climbing out of the car and entering the building, Adrien endeavoured to hide his nerves behind the wall of his puffed-up chest. He allowed himself to take in his surroundings as they moved to the dock where his assigned shuttle waited for him. Turians his age milled about, some wringing their hands as they trailed behind their parents while some walked ahead with their heads held high- He quickly altered the way he was moving, quickening his step to bypass his mother and father.

When they arrived at his shuttle, it was time to say goodbye to his parents, knowing that it would be seven months before he saw them again. It was his mother who approached him first, a proud smile pulling at her mandibles before she placed a hand on his shoulder and pressed her crest against his, -when had he grown as tall as her?- a farewell buzzing in her subharmonics.

“You’ll do well, my boy,” Galeia Victus said, pulling away and giving her son's shoulder a final squeeze.  

Straightening, Adrien looked past her to his father whom stood off to the side, watching the exchange with a strange sort of expression on his face. Hours of grueling training in preparation for this day flickered behind Adrien’s eyes as he stared at his father, General Tywin Victus. So many hours spent with the man yelling at him for one more lap, one more push-up, and he found himself at a loss for words. Should he press his crest to his? Hug him?

If he didn’t know any better, he’d almost say his father was wondering the same thing.

Settling on a salute, perfected by years of repetition, he fixed his gaze on both his parents before turning on his heel and pulling his bag higher on his shoulder. He then strode forward to join the queue for his transport, never once looking back. There was no reason to. It was time to make something of himself- To be worthy of what the Victus name evokes when spoken.

Once boarded, he was herded down a single row lined by two long benches that extended down the length of the cabin. Turians were already seated with their spurs resting against their duffels under their bench. There wasn’t a lot of room to move and the stench of nerves and teenage body odor permeated the air, mingled with the sound of boots scuffing against the durasteel floor. He tried not to grumble his irritation at how slow he was forced to move as he made his way to the first available spot. Apparently ‘move with a purpose’ hadn’t been drilled into his fellow recruits.

When he finally made it to his seat, he took a moment to extract a datapad that his father had given him - _Advanced Directives of Battle Tactics Past and Present_ \- from his duffel before he kicked it under the bench and sat down. Around him, the shuttle filled quickly and as he took in his surroundings he was often met by a set of eyes that peered out behind plates painted with the same Palaveni sweeps he had.

It would seem he wasn't the only one that put an effort into his paint-work that morning. Fortunately, he was finally of an age to get them permanently done and would do so as soon as possible.

A few colony kids were peppered amongst the Palaveni crowd, their faces outlined in various colors. There was a Vakarian on board, he noticed, with his geometric Cipritine blues, but the bulk of the passengers bore the whites of the homeworld. There would be more diversity once all the shuttles convened with their respective passengers at the same destination. Until then, Adrien was just another core-worlder private. Completely unremarkable.

He was determined to change that.

It wasn’t long until he felt the warmth of someone beside him. As he had done, the other turian performed the same preliminary measures of withdrawing a personal item to occupy oneself for a three hour flight before sitting down beside him. After a quick glance, long enough to register his benchmate as female and about his age, Adrien set his eyes on the datapad in hand.

Basic training wasn't about making friends. This was about making a name for himself, proving he was a son to be proud of. War was in his bones, as his father would tell him. He could make friends later. On that thought, Adrien didn’t look around at the faces surrounding him again even when the shuttle was declared full. Some might be teammates, others competition, but in that moment it didn’t matter.

As he read, he could feel the inertial dampeners kicking in and he had to school his attention to the task at hand. It wasn’t as if his mother hadn’t brought him on a shuttle like this before, showing him what he had to look forward to. Although… that one hadn’t been in motion at the time. And it wasn’t full of troops-

No. This was more important.

_'To die for the cause is the ultimate honor,’ words first spoken by General-’_

A sound like talons clicking on metal, though soft, still managed to clamber through his ear canal. Like the engine noise, he endeavoured to ignore it at first, but after failing to read the same sentence for the third time he finally looked up to glare at the assailant that breached his concentration.

It was the woman that had just sat down beside him. The bronze plates of her face were adorned with white Palaven lines similar to his own, but they were applied sloppily as if by an unpracticed hand. If she felt his scrutinizing stare, she made no sign of it as her talons worked studiously on a rather hefty, metal component. To what it went to, Adrien couldn’t even begin to guess, but it was large enough to warrant the use of her entire lap to support it. It looked like it might have been a piece to an engine-

Her hands suddenly stilled and Adrien was instantly filled by the sensation of being watched. Glancing up from the piece of machinery -unaware of how long he had been staring at it- he found himself on the receiving end of a curious pair of sea green eyes. She watched him silently as they swayed with the motion of the shuttle, seemingly immune to the awkwardness of the moment.

Was she testing him? Seeing if he’d look away first? Well, if she was, she was wasting her time because he came from a family that submitted to no one.

Then her mandible flicked into a soft smile, her eyes alight with amusement. The overhead lights played on the bronze of her plates, casting an iridescence that was… pretty, even beneath her clumsily-painted markings. He felt the lining of his cowl tingle from the buzz of her subharmonics after she hummed a greeting and his resolve dropped like a stone before he had any hope of catching it.

He was here for a reason, he remembered, and he couldn’t- no- he refused to allow himself to be distracted. There were plenty of other recruits she could talk to if that was her prerogative for being here.

Ignoring the sudden heat that burned the hide of his throat, Adrien quickly looked away, returning his attention to his datapad. Determined, he tried another four times before he finally got past that troublesome sentence with the meaning finally sunk in-

And there was the sound of talons scraping metal again. Having just got past the sentence, surely he could afford to steal one last look. Unsurprisingly, she had also returned to her previous task and as she worked, Adrien decided that the sound wasn’t so annoying after all.

Adrien dropped his gaze to continue reading and with the tinny sound of tinkering playing beside him, he was able to focus.

 

 

* * *

 

**Unknown Separatist Base, Solregit  2171**

 

The holo-map glowed greenly as its topographic image stretched out the length of the table, the pieces upon it moving in small increments day by day.  Loukie Fidele reclined in his chair, his eyes roving over the holographic landscape and his only available painkiller -a glass of _horosk_ _-_ rested beside his hand on the table’s metal surface.

He hid a wince as he shifted in his seat, his sore tendons protesting the movement as they contracted at the end of what was left of his leg. It had been five months, more than long enough for a proper hospital to have the stump healed and a prosthetic attached. If only he had those means. The pain wasn’t even the worst of it. His nightmares kept him awake night after night. He could still hear the sound of his plates cracking and his hide tearing on the evening he was forced to cut himself free from where he was pinned. The scent of burning flesh, seared by his omni-blade, was all he could smell anymore, even in the presence of a hot, home-cooked meal.

And it was the amber eyes, alight with hellfire, that periodically caused whatever he was holding to shatter. The bandage wrapped around his palm was more than proof of that.

Fidele looked up from the stalwart pawns, listening for the radio crackle to signal when he could begin moving them again. He was sequestered in a small bunker with only two other people for company: Torelus Abdican and Pirelli Judas. Both ex-lieutenants to the Hierarchy; now freedom fighters that shared in his determination to dismantle the gilded oppression that plagued turian society. They had long since abandoned the titles that represented their former lives, as all Separatists did that disavowed their former lives of servitude.

The former Loyalists were huddled around a separate table, their eyes trained on a video feed, quiet if only for the occasional update on the soldiers’ progress. It was tempting to get up and look for himself, but pride kept Louki seated. Now was not the time to ask for assistance to stand. He doubted his comrades would even hear him if he asked, riveted as they were on the terminal in front of them.

_“Alias, reporting in,”_ the comm crackled, the voice framed by the noise of thunder- powerful engines in the distance. Louki sat up in his chair. _“Hierarchy vessel spotted just landing outside tunnels. Permission to engage?”_ He felt Pirelli’s gaze on him and when he looked up, her mandible flicked out in question.

The caves that his men were attempting to breach were empty. The only reason they were marked on the map at all was due to the fact that they were perspective eezo mines for the Hierarchy. They had yet to set up a base there, likely due to the turmoil of Solregit politics that made it hard for them to establish themselves without a real show of force, which they were reluctant to do for a backwater colony planet.

Fidele felt his mandibles pull into a grin. His rebels didn’t have the numbers of the Hierarchy forces, but they had more heart in a single talon than any general had in their entire platoons. ‘Attack with overwhelming force;’ tactics of a fledgling destroying an insect mound. What the foolish child never accounts for are the stings of the individual insects that fight back, crawling beneath plate crevasess, marching toward vulnerable hide like the soft skin around the eyes or the connective tissue of the mandibles. There would always be more of them. They would always rebuild.

“Engage,” he ordered, reaching for his nearby glass.

“Engage.” Pirelli repeated into the comm.

_“Understood.”_ A staccato of gunfire erupted, stampeding through the silence of the bunker like hail atop a thin sheet of metal. It lasted for several seconds, though it felt like minutes, until the voice crackled back over the comm. _“Shuttle is down. It’s just one poor bastard making a run for it into the tunnels.”_

“Identification?” Fidele asked, no longer looking at his companions. He moved a piece two paces across the board.

“Identification?” Torelus repeated.

_“Oh shit, you’re gonna love this! Black armor. Red trim. Red lights.”_

The room stilled at that bit of information. It would seem a squad leader had gotten himself separated from his men. The question was-

“Pattern of the lights?” Torelus was the one to break the silence, voicing the query on all their minds.

_“Three horizontal across the back.”_

A captain, then.

_“Permission to pursue?”_

“Sign of reinforcements?” Fidele countered, grinning as he moved his piece another two paces across the board.

He heard the smile in his fellow Sundowner’s voice when he replied: _“None. Just him versus all of us. And I think he’s injured. Limping pretty bad on his left by the look of it.”_

Fidele met the eyes of his company and felt the pride radiate off of them when he nodded his go-ahead. Suddenly, the atmosphere had changed. Gone was the tension that had weighed it down not moments ago. And though it was unusual for one captain to be alone, no doubt a poor attempt at a trap, he felt nothing but confidence in his soldiers.

What idiot would not only sacrifice himself, but allow his shuttle to be shot down and potentially commandeered? Even allowing his enemies to salvage it for parts would be frowned upon by his leash holders.

No. His men could handle anything that was thrown their way especially from the likes of such a dull-witted Hierarchy varren. Losing a few was a likely outcome, but they would obtain their ultimate prize: at least a thousand kilos of unearthed eezo.

Maybe tonight he could finally sleep.

_“Possible identification on the captain,”_ Alias reported after several minutes.

“Dead or alive?” Pirelli asked, her subvocals thrumming with amusement.

_“Still alive.”_ The tone of the voice was… off now. Gone was the bravado, replaced with uncertainty that made the plates on Fidele’s arms tingle. _“It’s… I think it’s Victus.”_

“Abort!” The words fell from Louki’s maw in the same instant he flew from his chair, momentarily forgetting he only had one leg to support him. “NOW!” He shouted, quickly bracing himself on the edge of the table before he could fall.

He didn’t need to hear the screams erupting from the comms to grasp the futility of his warning.

Iron rested atop his shoulders and all he could do was brace himself on the table, trying not to sag beneath the weight of his cowl.  Gripping the edge, the bandage on his palm darkened, blue blood dripping at the edges in tandem with the dying wails of his brothers and sisters.

Looking upon the map, he watched as several pieces flickered out.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimers:**  
>  1) Beta'd by both [shretl (Girlundone)](http://archiveofourown.org/users/girlundone/pseuds/shretl) and [Marie_Fanwriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marie_Fanwriter).  
> 2) Artwork for this chapter is by the wonderfully talented [Savbakk.](https://savbakk.tumblr.com/)

**Dubris, Palaven 2150**

 

Boot camp was tough, but nothing compared to the grueling regiment his father had him on leading up to his departure. He already knew how to ration his meals and control his breath when sprinting. Training and hunting in the forests back home had shaped his body into something that could outrun, outfight, and outclimb any of the other recruits on any given day. He was faster, stronger, and far more experienced.

Every night he was in bed before lights out and every morning he was awake first with his cot made, polishing his armor before the officers even arrived. During sparring matches, he was thankful for the hunting trips he would take with his father. The game they took down with their bare claws and teeth moved with more finesse than most of his current opponents did and it was almost laughable when they threw punches at him. If he didn’t feel like dodging, he simply blocked the blows with an ease he had developed by years of experience, catching the horns of thrashing _perceaclops_.

His father had done well by acclimating him to being screamed at by their drill instructor, Sergeant Thalmus. She was surprisingly short for a drill instructor, but she would serve as his first lesson in underestimating an opponent. The low bass of her second vocals had the ability to ripple water in glasses from across the room and Adrien had personally witnessed her ability to reduce recruits into withered piles of warbling plates with only a single look from her piercing crimson eyes. Despite her small stature, she walked with a presence that stood tall enough to rival his own general-ranked father.

And she was very fond of spouting all kinds of creative expletives, completely heedless of the sign posted in their barracks. Admittedly, there were times he would need to school his mandibles from smiling when she would cuss in his face or at one of the other recruits, all the while staring at that very sign over her head.

 

**PROFANITY IS NOT QUALITY LEADERSHIP**

 

While Victus was prepared for the onslaught of shouting he knew he would endure, the same couldn’t be said for some of the other privates.

“ _Private, Verilin!”_ Her subharmonics were harsh, honed like a razor’s edge to slice through their ear canals, rattling their skulls. Sergeant Thalmus had turned her unrelenting gaze on a portly turian from the Gothis colony when he thrummed his vocals to ask a question he would’ve known the answer to had he read: ‘Science, Strategy and Skirmishes.’ “ _Every time you open your Spirits damned mouth, stupid just falls out!"_

Fortunately, Adrien rarely found himself on the receiving end of her ire. He was sure to tack on a 'ma’am’ at the end of every sentence, kept his head down, and did exactly what he was told when he was told to do it. Now was not a time for individuality. Only excellence.

_"Privates, you fuck this up, your level of misery will be beyond the Unification Wars!”_ The drill sergeant had sworn as she walked calmly down the line they created in the barracks. Her eyes lingered a beat longer on Verilin, who shrank under the weight of her stare. “ _I swear to you, Privates, the things I am capable of are_ _beyond what Zopyrus could do to the Separatists. There're_ _the stories you tell your family members to impress them about basic training and the stories you bury deep into your soul because of what I will do to you. This will be one that you suppress. So, absolutely ensure that you put your clan name first on this document! Do it now!"_

Victus had to suppress a chuckle on that occasion. Private Magrim Darraka -the female that had sat beside him on the shuttle- was not so subtle and earned their whole troop fifty push-ups. Fifty more, plus laps, when it was discovered that, of course, Private Verilin still managed to fuck up his document.

In fact, he was beginning to feel the dragging sensations of disappointment at the whole experience. He wanted to sweat, he wanted to be pushed. Spirits, he wanted to be _tested_. He knew he could outrun, outfight, and outsmart every other private in his regiment. What he wouldn’t give for a chance to prove it!

One morning, two weeks after his arrival, his troop was called out onto the field. Blue-green grass stretched for miles in all directions, the dew from the blades dampening his pant legs at the top of his boots as they filed out into the middle. Adrien prepared himself for the usual routine -a five-kilometer dash. Today he would break his personal record of eight minutes and twenty-two point three seconds.

“ _All right, you soft-plated cowl-clutchers!”_ As usual, the sergeant’s voice thrummed primarily with her subharmonics. “ _You have thirty seconds to form ten teams of three. Do it now!”_

Movement erupted around him as their uniform lines dissolved. Bodies crossed before and behind him, each turian attaching themselves to those with they had become most comfortable. All the while Victus couldn’t move, stunned in the realization that he knew no one beyond how fast they could run or how hard they could hit. Slowly, he turned and watched the new lines develop in teams of three.

“ _Is there a problem, Private Victus?”_ The booming thrum ran up the lining of his cowl and reverberated in his skull. Victus turned back around to find himself on the receiving end of his drill instructor’s predatory stare.

“No, ma’am!” he answered immediately, straightening his posture and lifting his gaze to stare straight ahead at the grassland beyond; he couldn’t meet her eyes.

“ _Then why are you not in your group yet, Private?!”_

“Ma’am, I-”

“ _I’m sorry! Did I fucking stutter?”_ She stepped closer into his space, her mandibles almost touching his though he stood a foot taller. From her close proximity, it was all Victus could do to keep himself from wincing at the drumming of her second vocals.

“No, ma’am.”

“ _Do you know where I’m from, Private Victus?!”_

“Macedyn, Ma’am.”

“ _Is your translator giving you a problem?!”_

“No, ma’am.”

“ _Then I ask again, since apparently you are able to understand me: Why_ _are you not in your group?!”_

“Ma’am, I don’t know anyone, ma’am!” He regretted the words the instant they fell out of his mouth, knowing just how much he sounded like a whining fledgling. Fire danced along the hide of his throat, giving him a pretty good gauge on just how blue it had flushed.

“ _Is that so?”_ She cocked her head to the side, her eyes sliding past his shoulder to look at something behind her. “ _It looks like a position is open for you just over there.”_ Victus ignored the cold look she cut him with when she refocused her attention on him, his gaze fixed on the horizon ahead. “ _Would you like me to introduce you, Private Victus?”_

“No, Ma’am,” he bit through gritted teeth.

“ _I can’t hear you!”_

“NO, MA’AM!” he shouted now, desperate to escape this awkward situation made worse by the round of poorly concealed snickering. “I CAN INTRODUCE MYSELF, MA’AM!”

“ _Then get your ass over there and stop wasting my time!”_

With what little dignity he could scrape together, Adrien turned to his would-be teammates. In quiet horror, his eyes first fell on _fucking_ Verilin. Behind him stood an unremarkable private whose name Adrien couldn’t even remember. The urge to kill himself surged powerfully when Verilin’s mandible flared into a weak, _welcoming_ smile. It was the only friendly expression in a sea of reproachful stares as Adrien moved to take his place at the front of his team; a chief among outcasts, determined not to allow them to hold him back.

“ _If Private Victus is quite finished with his introductions-”_ Adrien just managed to keep his mandibles from pinching against his jaw. “ _-the rest of us can begin! My expectations for you today are as follows: Speed. Volume. Intensity.”_ She ticked the list off on her fingers, closing out on the fourth with a closed fist. _“But above all: Teamwork! Know that I do not have time to waste._ _I need your team moving with a sense of cohesiveness and purpose at all times. Do you understand?”_

“Yes ma’am!” The platoon called back as the sergeant began a slow, purposeful pace down the lines they created, her eyes sharp and expectant.

“ _Volume!”_ She snapped, causing the nearest trainee to wince ever-so-slightly at the sharpness of her subvocals. “ _I want your subharmonics to knock me sideways when I tell you to do something. You are motivating your brothers and sisters. I do not simply want to hear you! I want to feel you! Do you understand?”_

“Yes, ma’am!”

“ _Say again!”_ The Sergeant’s mandible flared, her teeth flashing in a threatening display.

“Yes, ma’am!”

“ _Again!”_ She demanded.

“YES MA’AM!” They all shouted with both sets of vocals this time.

“ _Better.”_ Her hands folded behind her back. “ _You are to link arms with your teammates, shoulder to shoulder. Do it now!”_

Scraping up the last of his dignity, Adrien turned to regard his team. The other privates were already moving in a flurry around him, seizing the elbows of their friends without hesitation. It was humiliating, but not wanting to be singled out again, Adrien asserted himself between his squadmates and slipped his arms through theirs.

Sergeant Thalmus turned her gaze to the top of a large hill located a kilometer away from where they stood. “ _Together, we will run as a single unit to the top of that hill. There, your team will break off from the pack and it’s a race to the bottom. At the base, you will find ten sets of two wooden boards with three pieces of rope tied to each one. Your team is to work together to walk the boards a kilometer across the field. Do you understand?”_

“YES, MA’AM!”

“ _Your team will then find ten VT-7 tires. You will work together to lift your tire and push it over again, and again, until you cross the finish line. Do you understand?”_

“YES, MA’AM!”

When the Sergeant next spoke, the blades of grass shuddered at the thrum of her vocals. “ _Do it now!”_

Adrien’s feet were already flexed and ready for take-off at her order. Thankfully, his team had the decency to do the same. Adrien launched off his toes, determined to set a solid pace for the rest of the platoon to follow-

And found his arms caught, anchored to his two much slower teammates.

Inside, he wanted to scream. This wasn’t fair. He should be with one of the front teams at the head of the unit, not dragging along twin dead weights from the back like two club-footed krogan.

“ _You will move as one until you reach the top!”_ Sergeant Thalmus ordered as she kept pace at a steady jog beside their unit.

“YES MA’AM!” The platoon boomed around him, but Adrien did not feel like joining his voice with the rest. This was humiliating, jogging at the back of the pack. What would his father say? The thought alone curled his stomach.

“ _Your legs will ache and your lungs will burn, but you will not break formation!”_

“YES, MA’AM!” But Adrien’s legs weren’t aching and his breath was steady. They were moving too slow. _He_ was moving too slow.

“ _You fledglings run like old people fuck!”_

“YES, MA’AM!”

They were scaling the incline now; a task made more difficult by the two elcor attached to his arms. It didn’t help that they refused to match stride with him or each other, their plated shoulders kept bumping and jostling against his own. Adrien didn’t look at either of them as he could hear them wheeze and curse with the exertion of climbing the hill.

“ _I don’t want to hear your drama!”_ The Drill Sergeant's vocals thrummed without even a hint of fatigue as she ran beside them.

“YES, MA’AM!”

“ _You will suffer in silence with only your partners to support you!”_ She shouted as the front teams crested the top.

“YES, MA’AM!”

Anger surged inside him like a hot knife as he watched the backs of the turians in front of him crest the hill and disappear down the other side. He quickened his steps, all but dragging his partners with him until they reached the top of the hill, and then quickly joined the stampede of their fellow recruits.

At the base, nestled in the tall blue-green grass, he could see the planks Sergeant Thalmus had mentioned. Quickening his steps and ignoring the pitiful whine emitted by Verilin, they passed one team followed by a second, a third. They were almost to the bottom-

He felt more than heard the pair of legs give out from beside him. The strain of a fallen turian threatened to yank his shoulder from its socket, but they were so spirits-damned close to their goal.

‘ _No.’_

Adrien locked down his arm, looped as it was through the limb of his fallen teammate, smashing the man’s elbow painfully -and rather awkwardly- into his sensitive waist. Grass whispered and pulled on his charge as the blades caught and snagged on the spurs, but he ignored it as he dragged the deadweight along. It wasn’t until he heard the sound of boots stumbling as their owner struggled to carry his weight, did he loosen his grip.

At last, they reached their goal. Adrien released his partners and took his spot at the head, placing a foot on each plank before he reached down to take a rope in either hand. The idea behind the process was straightforward enough; his teammates would line up behind him, their feet on either plank and the three of them would have to lift their feet while simultaneously pulling up on the ropes to walk the planks along, step by step.

Once his teammates were in position, Victus set his eyes ahead of them. He could see their final obstacle off in the distance along with various teams stumbling and waddling along toward it. He could still salvage this shitty situation.

“Left!” he ordered, yanking sharply up on the left rope-

And went nowhere. The order was followed a beat too slow, and the board resisted his arm under the weight still pressed upon it by two eighty-kilogram turians. It then snapped up with the swiftness of a spring trap as his partners shifted their weight to the right and he found himself knocked slightly off balance.

Vexed, Adrien shot a wrathful look over his shoulder at the two anchors he was tied to. Verilin flared his mandible bashfully in response and thrummed an apology with his vocals. The unknown recruit, however, didn’t wither under his gaze. He simply returned the glare with one of his own and an annoyed flick of his mandible. ‘ _That’s going to be a problem.’_

Turning his back on his team, Adrien returned to his previous position and took the ropes in hand once again.

“Left!” he repeated, this time waiting for the other turians to respond. That proved just as detrimental to their combined effort as his foot was the one that held the board down that time.

“Left!” he tried again, this time met with a moderate amount of success. The left board was lifted and moved a tentative step forward. Finally.

“Right!” he said, readying himself to be knocked off kilter again. The plank didn’t rise right away as he pulled on the rope, but he kept the tension on it, waiting for it to respond and when it did, it too moved forward.

Maybe they _could_ do this.

“Left. Right. Left. Right.” Slowly, the trio was mercifully making progress across the field. The tall, wet grass proving itself as its own obstacle. It snagged on the wood every time it was lifted through the blades, but it was manageable. They were by no means the fastest team but at least they were advancing with the rest of the platoon.

After stumbling twice, they crossed the kilometer to their final obstacle. Six teams had reached the destination before them; two were already halfway to the finish line, but Victus wouldn’t be deterred. He would make his father proud even if he had to drag these two lead weights with him.

Abandoning the planks, he didn’t bother to look back at his team before he took up position in front of the tire. He squatted down and jammed his fingers underneath the rim, his talons cutting through the grass and loamy soil. From his new position, the task of moving the tire suddenly grew into a monumental trial. They were large and cumbersome with hundreds, if not thousands, of talon marks scoring the surface, marking the years of the wheel’s life spent at the academy like rings in a tree stump.

“Lift!” he ordered once his teammates caught up, biting back a growl at having to wait in the first place.

Dirt and rocks shifted and crumbled as the weight of the wheel separated from the ground. How long had it been sitting there? Once it was stood up, it was a simple matter of pushing it back over and repeating the process. Adrien could admit that he was getting physically tired, but he was more frustrated than anything else. The tire was heavy, sure, but nothing that a team of competent turians couldn’t handle. As it was, he felt like he was lifting the whole thing himself. It had to weigh more than him if his screaming quadriceps and shoulders were any indication.

“Lift!” he demanded, ignoring Verilin’s pitiful whine.

“ _Do you think I ever show weakness on the battlefield?”_ Sergeant Thalmus had appeared nearby.

“No, ma’am!” The recruits chanted back amidst tired grunts and roars of effort.

“ _That is some flaming klixen shit!”_ she snapped, her words vibrating harshly with the use of her second larynx. “ _You all embarrass me with this pathetic display!  
_

“Yes, Ma’am!”

“ _Prove me wrong! Pain through discipline!”_

“Yes, Ma’am!”

“ _That sounded like a question! Pain through what?”_

“Discipline!”

“ _Pain through what?”_

“DISCIPLINE!”

“ _By the end of your time with me, I will turn you all into people who can cannot be preyed upon!”_

“YES, MA’AM!”

At this point, Adrien had abandoned all pretenses of stoicism. His legs burned. His arms ached. And if he had to listen to one more of Verilin’s complaints about his own limbs he was going to punch him in the face. Thank the spirits his other teammate took Sergeant's Thalmus’ order of ‘suffer in silence’ to heart, but he was still just as useless as their other partner. By the time the next team behind them began to pass them by, Adrien was fuming.

They were the seventh team out of ten to finish.

“ _Spirits,”_ Verilin complained. “I could collapse right here. I feel like I have hanar legs. And my arms…” He made a show of lifting his shoulders, the muscles in his limb trembling down to his talons. Then he turned to their silent teammate, his mandibles flared in a sheepish smile. “They’re killing me. You?”

But Adrien wasn’t interested in hearing the state of their sore limbs.

“They hurt because you’re weak.” The words fell out of his mouth before he could catch them, but he found that he didn’t much care. If Private Verilin couldn’t stomach the truth, how was he to survive the rest of his military career? “They hurt because you’re about as useful as a broken fringe.” From the corner of his eye, his unknown counterpart stepped forward, undoubtedly to protect their weakest link. Adrien turned his gaze on him, registering the show of threatening teeth-

And he never saw the fist coming.

It slammed into his mandible, but not from the direction of his so-called team. The soft grass cushioned his fall, but it did little to remove the sting from his face as he found himself sprawled out on the ground.

Resisting the urge to support his wounded maxilla, Adrien turned his gaze up and to the side, his eyes landing on a furious drill Sergeant. He was too late to stop his mandibles from shifting into a snarl, but he was quick to remove it when Sergeant Thalmus took a step forward.

“ _If you have something to say about my recruits, Private Victus, you’ll damn well say it in front of me.”_ Her subharmonics buzzed with rage and that’s when he noticed her positioning. She had moved between him and his teammates like a protective mother shielding her fledglings. It was almost as if she actually _cared_ about them.

All at once, the reality of how badly he just fucked up hit him hard. This wasn’t becoming behavior of a soldier. He was taught better than that. Shame flooded his body, washing away all traces of his anger like a sand fort in the wake of a crashing wave. His mandibles pinched against his jaw of their own accord and whatever retort he was going to shoot misfired in his throat.

Sergeant Thalmus held his stare, her eyes burning in the reflection of the anger that simmered beneath the surface. How Adrien wished the ground would open up and swallow him. He couldn’t help but look away, still feeling the hard stare on his plates and wishing she would say something… or shoot him. Either was preferable to this.

“The first three teams that crossed the finish line are dismissed for the day.” Adrien exhaled at the sound of her voice, but he dared not look up. “The rest of you will spend the next three hours disassembling and cleaning every gun in this facility.” From the ground, Adrien watched her boots step away from him, so he chanced a glance up only to look back down. She was still watching him, but her expression was… almost indiscernible. “Private Verilin.”

“Ma’am,” the addressed turian stepped forward.

“Private Gratso.”

“Ma’am,” the previously unnamed turian replied.

“Private Victus has generously volunteered on your behalf. You two are dismissed for the day.” A clawed hand seized him by the front of his uniform and Adrien found himself hauled effortlessly to his feet. “ _You will meet me in my office immediately and then you will report to the armory.”_

She shoved him away and turned to leave, not bothering to wait for his dejected: “Yes, ma’am.”

 

* * *

 

Outside his Drill Sergeant’s office, Adrien idled, inwardly praying to any spirit listening for strength. His eyes lingered at the name imprinted on the door, reading it over several times as if missing something crucial in the lettering that might give him some clue as to how he was going to survive this encounter. What if he was getting court martialed? Or worse, dishonorably discharged?

Steeling himself with a long breath, Adrien stepped up to the door, putting himself within distance of the built-in VI scanner that beamed a grid of light up and down his body. The door flew open within seconds of the scan. In his desperation to get the exchange over and done with, he nearly stepped into the office.

“Permission to enter, Drill Sergeant.”

“Granted,” came a voice from inside. It was familiar, but different enough to warrant a second look. Sergeant Thalmus sat behind her desk -black _cinis_ wood, by the look of it- with a datapad in her hand that demanded her attention. Her office was sparsely decorated as she likely only inhabited it seven months out of the year before a different sergeant rotated in to take her place. Adrien also took note of a window and had to ignore the temptation to take a running leap out of it.

Adrien stepped in, hearing the door cycle shut behind him. The Sergeant spared him a single, crimson look and then went back to her datapad. “Sit down, Private Victus.” She sounded quite different when she wasn’t trying to rattle a brain with her subvocals.

He obeyed, crossing the sparsely decorated room and took his place in the visitors’ chair set across the desk from hers. It was only once he was settled that he realized he didn’t respond with a ‘yes, ma’am.’ Undoubtedly, she would have noticed it too but deigned to not acknowledge it.

Was this an off-the-record talk, then? Adrien would have to wait some time for his answer as the drill sergeant wasn’t inclined to immediately address him. As he waited, he tried his damnedest not to fidget or look around. He had to uphold an air of respectful confidence. Though, he was almost tempted to lean forward and see what he could glean off the datapad in her hand. Was it about him? Even if it was, it was none of his business. His only job was to sit there and wait. Silently. How many minutes had gone by? Thinking about that only made him more uncomfortable, yet somehow the sergeant was perfectly immune to the awkwardness.

Ah. He recognized the tactic, having read about it in ‘Tactics and Task Forces, volume CCXVIII.’ General Calvelea Abilus was famously quoted: ‘ _Grenades and thermal clips will break hide, aimed with rage and hate. Words can sting like anything, but silence breaks the plate.’_

And Sergeant Thalmus wore silence as comfortably as a shroud.

Suddenly, he felt like he was being watched. He glanced up into the crimson stare of his drill sergeant and he snapped back in his chair, unsure of when he had leaned forward. It was nearly impossible not to fidget now, especially when her mandible flared as if she was parsing over exactly which words she would use to discharge him.

“How’s your mandible?”

He was just able to keep himself from flinching, expecting a blow that never came. It felt like the ground was about to shatter beneath him and -damn it- he wished his heart would stop hammering against his keel.

“It’s fine, ma’am.” Not true. It still stung. He hadn’t been able to ice it yet. Hopefully his subharmonics didn’t reflect that.  

Sergeant Thalmus gave a thoughtful hum. Somehow, he doubted she believed him. “Do you know why I hit you, Private?”

Adrien knew better than to nod his head. “Yes, ma’am.” It was the correct answer, he knew, yet the glare she shot at him told him otherwise.

“Do you?” And spirits it was weird listening to her talk like a normal person.

Adrien hesitated now. “Ma’am, I was being unprofessional. I was... frustrated and I took it out on my team.”

Her glare softened, but her stare held for several seconds before she held out the datapad for him to take. It was a list of his scores over the past two weeks. Top marks, he noted, except for one, glaring zero, dated on that very day, the teamwork tests. Once again, his mandibles pinched unbidden against his jaw.

“Based on these marks, I have no doubt that you’ll make an impressive soldier one day,” he looked up from the datapad, but didn’t trust his voice to speak. “But you’ll never be an effective leader until you learn to respect those that serve under you.”

“Understood, ma’am.”

“You don’t.” Adrien blinked at the severity in her tone. “Private Victus, I hit you today because you were verbally attacking one of my own.” Her chair creaked as she shifted her weight forward. “I take personal offense to that.”

“Understood, ma’am.” Adrien sought refuge in the table’s surface. He could see his expression reflecting back in the polished wood.

Sergeant Thalmus sat back again, tapping her talons against the solid surface. “I have no doubt of the leadership potential you possess.” He glanced up at that, catching the sight of appraisal that looked oddly out of place on his relentless drill instructor. “To that end, allow me to give you some advice, Private Victus. Regard your soldiers as your children and they will follow you into the deepest battles.” Adrien sat up in his seat, his earlier fears long since fallen away though the sense of shame he felt earlier had returned. Yet, it was diminished, akin to the feeling of being in the presence of a disappointed parent.

Sergeant Thalmus’ maxilla tugged into a light, almost imperceptible smile.

“Look upon them as your own beloved sons and daughters, and they will stand by you, even until death.”

 

* * *

 

**Cipritine, Palaven 2170**

It felt like he was resting in a timeless dream, comforted by the sound of familiar vibrations. Every now and then he felt a nudge against his maxilla, but he grumbled and turned his face away, pressing his crest against the weight lying on his chest.

“C’mon, Private,” he heard a melodic voice whisper the name only she spoke. “Cute as this is, you’ll hurt your back sleeping here.” Slowly, his eyes opened only to find his vision obstructed. That was when he registered the weight lying back against him, the source of the obstruction being Tarquin’s small arm slung across his face. Adrien had the snoozing fledgling wrapped close in the crook of his elbow, the other arm was draped off the edge of the couch, his knuckles brushing the floor. He raised the hand that lay on the floor to remove Tarquin’s arm, feeling a datapad slip through his loose grip as his mate withdrew it from his hand.

“ _One morning, the Separatists rose to see the high ranking Palaven general at their gates, soaked in his own blood, whipped, with his mandibles hacked off.”_ It took Adrien’s sluggish mind a couple seconds to realize she was reading off the datapad he had been holding. “ _He screamed that Primarch Darius had done this to him for failing to capture their city, and that now his rage was so great he wished to defect and help them defeat the brutal Primarch and overthrow the Hierarchy. What they didn’t know was that-”_ She paused, cutting him a _look_ that made him feel like his own mandibles were in danger.

Still, he hummed for her to continue. “Don’t stop. You’re just getting to the good part.”

Magrim shot him a glare from atop the datapad, an ever-present smear of motor oil swiped across her crest. She continued. “ _Zopyrus had cut off his own mandibles and arranged his own whipping, all with Primarch Darius’ knowledge. Zopyrus would quickly rise in the ranks of the Separatist army, and just as quickly he_ _weakened the city's defenses, allowing the Hierarchy to soon recapture the city-_ This isn’t exactly age appropriate, Private!” She snapped in a hushed whisper.

Adrien shrugged with the shoulder not currently supporting the weight of his dozing child. “Got him to sleep, didn’t it?” As if to emphasize his point, Tarquin turned to snuggle into his neck, purring contently in his slumber. The sound of it dulled the glare his mate was piercing him with.

“This isn’t over,” she warned, leaning over him to withdraw Tarquin into her arms as he was too big to lay in her cowl now. A small, stuffed Blasto that he’d fallen asleep with went tumbling back down to the couch, landing softly atop Adrien’s keel. “We’re talking about this later.”

With the missing weight on his chest, Adrien secured the fallen plush before unraveling from the couch, feeling old aches and pains react to his uncomfortable position. Without thinking, he held his arms out to take Tarquin back, transferring the plush into Magrim’s charge in the process. Much to his chagrin, Fidele’s words had managed to weed their way into his brain. ‘ _One day, I’ll show him the same mercy you showed my men today.’_ Adrien wondered, not for the first time, how many of his old enemies would turn their gazes onto Tarquin. It was a tactical decision to allow Fidele to live, but as he stood with the weight of his son in his arms, he almost regretted his choice.

Together, they carried him into his room -Adrien had to suppress a keen after stepping barefoot on a rogue piece of machinery on the way, glaring at Mags after the fact.

“You’re worse than he is about leaving your toys around,” he grumbled, ignoring her snicker as she bent to retrieve the infernal trinket.

“What would I do without your uncanny ability to find all my missing pieces?”

After he stooped to lay Tarquin in his bed and Magrim placed the hanar beside him, Adrien lingered for just a moment to stretch the length of his hand across the side of his tiny face. Then Magrim gently took his other hand and led him from the room, across the hall, into theirs. He would always follow her willingly. Once in their room, her hands crept across his clothes, unsnapping clasps with practiced ease. He hummed when he felt her tongue on his neck, but stiffened when she spoke: “What’s going on in that head of yours, Private?”

Adrien Victus could fool a whole lot of people, but nothing got past his mate. Especially when she chipped away at his walls with her teeth and wiped away the resultant debris with her tongue.

“Don’t ever defect,” was his answer, rumbled more with the use of his second vocals before he shoved her down onto their bed, following close behind to straddle her. His tongue traced the length of her left mandible– the one that she tended to use when smirking at him -as she was now.

“W-was thinking about it,” she teased, her breath hitching as he began to nip his way down her lithe body. He didn’t dawdle as he slid down between her legs.

“That won’t bode well,” Adrien replied, gently biting the inside of her thigh and rejoicing at the _want_ he heard in her sub-vocals.

A foot rose to brace against his shoulder, but the move was deceptive. He found himself kicked backwards, landing softly on his back at the foot of the bed and then pinned in place by both the weight of his mate and her sea-green stare. “Why’s that?” she humored him while grinding her pelvis against his own, reducing him to putty in her hands.

‘ _You would see through every one of my tactics,’_ he wanted to say, but refrained. In this moment of time they were happy, and he wouldn’t ruin it by admitting to the pain of losing his soldiers, of Fidele’s threat against their son. That could come later. For now, they had this. With a growl Adrien flipped her back over.

Magrim let it go.

Later, as they laid together at the precipice of sleep, Adrien quietly admitted: “I lost two.”

In the dark of their room he felt a crest nuzzle into his throat followed by the comforting hum of her subvocals as they vibrated against the lining of his cowl. There was no need for further explanation and he knew she wouldn’t push for one. She wouldn’t apologize or ask him if he was all right. She knew how much he cared for each and every one of his soldiers.

Instead, Magrim would simply stay beside him and allow him to anchor himself to her, if he wanted and for as long as he needed. It was what she’d always done in their fifteen years together. She wasn’t very good at pep talks anyway, something he loved to remind her of during the rare times she’d try.

“Damn, Mags,” he would sally with a deeply wounded look. “I was depressed before, but if you could just go grab my sword from the bedroom…” That typically rewarded him with having to take cover, dodging a barrage of any small mechanical pieces within her reach from whatever project she’d be working on at the time.

Curled up around her, he didn’t need words. With her, he felt like he was at the top of the world, virtually untouchable. Like a klixen guarding her herd, she made him feel protected in his most vulnerable moments. In her arms, Captain Victus fell away. He was simply Adrien.

He wasn’t sure how long they laid like that, listening to each other breathe, but eventually she murmured: “I got my next orders.”

Adrien _hm’d_ in response, not surprised that they’d send her off so quickly. Military families with children often switched off if both their jobs took them away from home. Adrien being home from his deployment meant it was his mate’s turn to go, leaving him home with their fledgling.

“How long?” He rumbled, resting his chin atop her crest.

“I leave in a week.” She nipped lazily at the space of throat he’d presented to her. “I won’t be gone long this time. Just an escort mission.” Her head slipped out from beneath his chin, a talon slipping up the back of his head to pull his crest flush with hers. Then she playfully tweaked his nasal plates between her thumb and finger, making him blink. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to soldier on without me for a little while. Think you’re up for it?”

Smiling, he told her: “I’ll just have to manage, won’t I?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Quotes I borrowed for this chapter:**
> 
>  
> 
> _"Regard your soldiers as your children, and they will follow you into the deepest valleys; look upon them as your own beloved sons, and they will stand by you even unto death."_ Quote by Sun Tzu.
> 
> _"Sticks and stones are hard on bones, aimed with angry art, words can sting like anything but silence breaks the heart."_ Quote by Phyllis Mcginley. ← I edited that one to be more 'turiany'. :D


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